Dying to Breathe

1.3: anarchy

Chapter 1, Part 3: Anarchy

The nearest Penelope came to leaving home was the time her sister and her decided to live outside during a protest.

They were seven.

For two weeks they lived in a tent in the backyard, rebelling against their parents as they refused to leave the small stray kitten they had found all alone. In the following days, their father named the white kitten Anarch, and the girls moved back into their shared bedroom with the tiny troublesome tagalong at their feet.

Needless to say, Penelope was rather inexperienced in being alone. Growing up was so much easier in a small town where you could count on your family's help. For that reason, she never understood her sister's burning desire to leave.

And yet... here she was. Alone and in a city larger than she could have imagined.

She was out of breath by the time she reached the loud orange door within an otherwise cold grey hallway. She had opted out of being closed into a hanging death box with strangers as she took the eight levels of grounded stairs by herself instead. A variety of inviting, colourful neighbouring doors stood on either side of her, contrasting with the coldness of the grey as she unlocked door 816. She pushed on the bright door, revealing a relatively spacious dorm room—her roommate nowhere to be found.

Cocking her head to the side, she wasn't exactly sure how to describe it. It was as if someone very white were doing their utmost best at reimagining Mexican culture with their research and experience solely being from a Pinterest board. The walls were painted a washed-out cream colour, while the furniture and the rest of the décor mostly screamed 'this is what I think a fiesta feels like!' in a very enthusiastically ignorant—and probably appropriated—way.

In other words, it wasn't like anything she was used to owning herself. Her room back home had been clean and without messy splashes of colour; everything had a place, and everything was made for comfort and practicality rather than aesthetics. That stuff was always left for Millie—the beautiful loud things.

Take away the harmful stereotypical part of it, and she didn't completely hate it; the bright, aliveness it breathed into the room. She was finding that 'different' didn't always mean bad.

Exhausted, she fell into one of the two beds after dropping her bag on a white desk chair. Since the room came fully furnished, bright orange and red pillows broke her fall like she was landing on clouds. The bed's soft white comforter was fluffy, making her senses melt into mush as she kicked her shoes off onto the colourful rug and crawled up to the window ledge just above the mattress.

Her eyes widened as she slid the opaque curtains out of the way, looking down at the big world, seemingly so much smaller even just eight floors up. She smiled, imagining what her sister would say if she were there.

"Today an eighth-floor dorm room, tomorrow a penthouse suite."

"No matter what, I'll finish the story, Millie." She mused, closing her eyes as she pictured her sister's warm smile. "I promise."